


Toss a Coin into Your Basic Pumpkin Spice Bulgogi: A Craic Flufftober Recipe

by FrostyEmma



Category: Derry Girls (TV), Killing Eve (TV 2018), The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Epic Friendship, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Flufftober, Gen, M/M, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 16,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26739946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostyEmma/pseuds/FrostyEmma
Summary: Bajanxed by this year of our Lord 2020 and longing for some fluff, romance, and humor to soothe your frazzled soul? Think that a Russian assassin and the MI6 agent who loves her could use more cuddles? Perhaps you want to catch yourself on with some Norn Iron wains and their wee English mate? Or do you just want a witcher and his bard to enjoy a moment, dammit?Then toss a coin to your barista with three rounds of fluffy goodness, ending with a Halloween ficlet for each series (prompts 31-33). Written for Flufftober 2020.KILLING EVE - Prompts 1-10, 31(All Eve/Villanelle, except prompt 4, which is Audrey+Bear friendship)DERRY GIRLS - Prompts 11-20, 32(Erin/James, Michelle/Clare, and our darling Orla, but the pack shows up in most o' them)THE WITCHER - Prompts 21-30, 33(All Geralt/Jaskier, though Ciri shows up here n' there)
Relationships: Clare Devlin/Michelle Mallon, Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, James Maguire/Erin Quinn
Comments: 121
Kudos: 154
Collections: Flufftober 2020





	1. In the Shadows

Sometimes, when Eve watched her girlfriend sleep - Villanelle’s face striped with shadows and washed with moonlight - she would catch herself thinking:

_Damn, my girlfriend is really sexy._

She thought this while Villanelle slept next to her, resplendent in some oddly poofy, but unquestionably haute couture, pink nightgown. (Eve had a flannel nightshirt on, which Villanelle assured her was “definitely sexy. Trust me.” But then she had winked, so…?)

There were so many different ways to parse a Villanelle wink. Or smile. Or that clever thing she did with her tongue while they were in bed…

Abruptly Eve dragged her mind out of the gutter and back into bed with her girlfriend, where it belonged. 

She reached for the opened bag of Nice n’ Spicy Nik Naks on the bedside table. Which were actually pretty vile and left a (white people spicy) dusting of fake cheese on the fingertips. 

“Extruded corn snacks are delicious, Eve,” Villanelle had informed her once, and while Eve still absolutely disagreed with that assessment, she was in a snacking mood and the Nik Naks were within easy snacking reach.

Cautiously, slowly, she eased her hand into the bag - didn’t want to wake anyone up - but, well, maybe subtlety had never been her strong suit or maybe her girlfriend was a very light sleeper or maybe she shouldn’t have been reaching for the disgusting corn snacks to begin with, but-

Villanelle cracked an eye open.

“Are you stealing my extruded corn snacks, Eve?” she murmured, not even bothering to raise her head from the pillow, but managing to raise one perfectly manicured eyebrow all the same.

“I mean,” Eve shrugged, “I wouldn’t really say _stealing_. Stealing is such a harsh word.”

“Stealing is the perfect word,” Villanelle countered. “Because it’s what you’re doing right now.”

“Such an ugly word, stealing.”

“I caught you, fake-cheese-dust-handed.”

“Yeah, well.” Eve crunched loudly on a Nik Nak. It was satisfying in an overly-processed, not particularly tasty, extruded corn snack kind of way. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Lots of things,” Villanelle muttered, though she sounded seconds away from drifting back to sleep. “So many things.”

“Sexy things?” Eve tossed a Nik Nak toward her mouth. It bounced off her nose and fell onto the duvet.

Villanelle smirked, but graciously didn’t comment. “Definitely sexy things. Many sexy...” The sentence trailed off into a yawn. 

Eve munched on a handful of Nik Naks. Deliberately. Without breaking eye contact.

Villanelle rolled her eyes. “Don’t get any extruded cheese dust on the pillowcases,” she muttered, before shifting around and letting sleep reclaim her.

“Never.” Eve refrained from wiping her cheese-dusty fingers on her flannel nightshirt. Because she was a classy lady like that. “Perish the thought.”

The Nik Naks really were unsatisfying. She rolled the bag up and turfed it back onto the nightstand. 

Villanelle had already drifted back to la-la land, chest rising and falling slowly and breath soft and gentle in the quiet of the room. 

Eve watched her for a moment, a contented smile spreading across her face.

Yep, it was true. 

Her girlfriend was really sexy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, questions, kudos, and the like are a fic writer's pumpkin spice latte (or your fall drink of choice), so don't be shy! Come say hi!


	2. Comfort

The first time Villanelle got sick - really sick: fever, chills, night sweats, all the disgusting things that bodies were capable of doing - she thought it was the end.

Everything was finished.

Done.

Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. (Did anyone really play that stupid board game anymore? It seemed better suited to torture. Actual torture.)

Either way, game over. 

Eve would finally wake up and see Villanelle for who she really was - a spoiled, broken, vain brat (okay, okay, those parts were probably at least a _tiiiiny_ bit true) who still managed to be gross and smelly and _ill_ just like everyone else on the planet.

She waited for it.

Cringed and waited for it, and maybe hated herself a bit for cringing. 

Eve brought her soup instead. 

“Aww, Eve,” Villanelle managed to croon from the bed, though her voice sounded dry and cracked and not very appealing at all. “Did you make me soup?”

“No. Are you kidding?” Eve scrunched up her nose. (Goddamn, but she was so adorable when she did that.) “Can’t you see it’s in a cardboard container?” She gently shook said cardboard container, maybe for emphasis. 

Villanelle nodded. “Duly seen. Cardboard container.”

“The idea is for you to get better.” Eve seated herself on the edge of the bed, scootching Villanelle over. “Not worse.” 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Villanelle croaked, then frowned at her gross new frog voice. “That spaghetti thingy-”

“Gochujang.”

“Gochujang.” Villanelle savored the word on her tongue. “The gochujang spaghetti was pretty delicious.”

Eve rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, mixing a tube of hot pepper paste with some noodles and bacon is hardly the height of culinary mastery.” She twisted the lid off the container, setting it aside and releasing a cloud of chicken-noodle-soup-scented steam into the air. 

Reflexively, Villanelle licked her lips and breathed in the deliciously warm scent. “Culinary mastery or not, you made it for me.” 

“I did.”

Villanelle settled back against the pillows. “And so it tasted like love.”

“It tasted like gochujang spaghetti.” Eve snorted without heat. “Sap.”

“Loser.” Villanelle smirked.

“Eat up.” Eve offered her a plastic spoon and a napkin. “It won’t taste like love, but it will taste like healing.”

“Oh my God.” Villanelle pulled a face. “Don’t ever write poetry, okay?” She didn’t take the spoon.

“You’re one to talk.” Once again, Eve nudged the spoon at her. “Go on. Eat.”

Villanelle sighed. Closed her eyes. “Feed me, Eve.” 

“Feed you?” Eve snorted again. “Feed yourself, you big baby.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Maybe you are what?”

“A big baby.” Villanelle cracked an eye open to see Eve’s reaction. “Or maybe I just wanted to be babied.” She hesitated, then, “For once.”

Eve looked at her for a long moment, and Villanelle was on the verge of taking it back, laughing it off - ha ha, who’s the loser now? - when Eve nodded and said, “Okay.”

She dipped the spoon into the container, came up with a healthy mouthful of chicken chunks and chopped veggies, and carefully brought the spoon to Villanelle’s lips.

“Sometimes it’s nice to be babied when we’re sick,” Eve murmured. “It’s nice to know the losers are looking after their saps.”

Villanelle tried - and failed - to glower at her.

“Say ‘ah’,” Eve encouraged, and Villanelle couldn’t help herself.

She opened her mouth. She said ‘ah.’ The soup was goddamn delicious and perfect going down, and yes, it _did_ taste like love, no matter how much her loser girlfriend might scoff at that.

Eve fed her spoonful after spoonful, until half the container was gone, and then she popped the lid back on, stuck the container in the fridge, and returned to fluff Villanelle’s pillows and straighten out the duvet.

“Get some sleep.” She dropped a kiss on Villanelle’s forehead. “This loser is worried about you.”

“This sap loves you,” Villanelle murmured. “I love you, Eve.”

She drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are a writer's pumpkin spice donut, so don't be shy! Come say hi!


	3. But You Said

“All right. Here it is.” 

Villanelle fell backwards on the couch - which was very tastefully patterned, by the way, because she was a very tasteful interior decorator - colorful and rather upmarket brochure in hand. 

(Clearly the company had hired either the best graphic designers money could buy OR they had poached very talented designers fresh out of university who didn’t yet have the know-how to ask for more money.)

Probably a mix of both.

Had Villanelle been the talented designer fresh out of university, she would have definitely asked for more money. Top dollar. Or pound. Or euro. 

No matter the currency, she would have raked it in (and looked very sexy doing it). 

“Hello?” Eve looked at her, curled up on the couch and steaming hot cup of jasmine tea in hand. “You still with me?”

Villanelle blinked. “What?”

“Exactly.” Eve sipped at her tea. “You went away there for a second.”

“Just thinking about business.” Villanelle shrugged. “Or about the economics of graphic design, I suppose.”

Eve raised an eyebrow. “Are you looking for a sudden and dramatic career change?”

“What? No.” Villanelle waved the very thought away. “Carolyn pays me more than enough for my very specific skillset.”

“Carolyn doesn’t pay you at all,” Eve pointed out.

Villanelle made a ‘pfft’ sound at that. “Carolyn’s bosses then, or whoever is pulling her strings, the person at the top, blah blah blah.” Another hand wave. “Bored now.”

Eve took another delicate sip of tea. 

Actually, no, she didn’t. 

She ended up slurping it very loudly and making a terrible face. “This is really too hot. I don’t know why I keep punishing myself like this.”

“Like a glutton.” Villanelle smirked, then tapped Eve on the arm with her colorfully expensive brochure. “Now back on topic, Eve.”

“I didn’t know there _was_ a topic.”

“There is _always_ a topic, Eve.”

“This seemed pretty topicless, to be honest.”

“Topicless?” Villanelle scowled. “I don’t think that’s even a word. You’re making up words now.”

“Hey, lady, who’s the native English speaker here?” Eve pointed a finger at her own chest. “That’s right. Me. “

“Yeah, but, you sound _American_ ,” Villanelle scoffed, then grinned when Eve lightly swatted her on the arm.

“Hey, what’s this?” Eve set her teacup on the coffee table, snatched the brochure out of Villanelle’s hands, and opened it. “ _Glamping_?”

“That,” Villanelle said smugly, “is the topic.”

“ _Glamping_?” Eve repeated, without lifting her eyes from the brochure. “In the Lake District?”

“The Lake District is a popular holiday destination, Eve,” Villanelle informed her. “Known for its glacial ribbon lakes, rugged fell mountains, and historic literary associations.”

“Are you…” Eve looked up at her. “Are you quoting Wikipedia now?”

“No,” Villanelle said instantly, then shrugged. “Maybe. Yeah, probably I am.” She waved that thought off. “Anyway, you said you always wanted to go glamping.”

“No, I said I always wondered what the hell glamping _is_.”

“Oh.” Another shrug. “Well, I’ve already booked it. For tomorrow.”

“Spur of the moment glamping?” Eve tossed the brochure on the table and then it was her turn to shrug. “Okay. Fine. Let’s do it.”

Villanelle smiled.

Eve leveled a stern finger at her. “But we are _not_ zipping up into one sleeping bag like a couple of horny teenagers.”

“Of course not, Eve,” Villanelle crooned. “Didn’t you read the entire brochure? They have king-size beds with 800 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoying the fluff? Throw me a comment!


	4. Wounded

“Are those Tangfastics you’re eating?” Audrey asked Bear once, before everything had gone to utter shit. 

Bear looked up from his colorful packet of clearly labeled Haribo Tangfastics. “Maybe.”

“Can I have one?” Audrey stifled a yawn. “I’m absolutely knackered. Need a bit of a sugar rush to prop my eyelids open.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Bear ambled over to her, held out the packet. “But what you really need is coffee. With cream. And a whole lot of sugar.”

“I’m too knackered to even make the five minute walk for coffee.” Audrey rummaged in the packet and came out with two primary-colored chunks of rubbery sugared goodness.

“I could get you some coffee,” Bear offered, hesitated a moment, and popped a Tanfastic in his mouth. “Or, um… I could take you out for coffee. Sometime.”

“Oh? _Oh._ ” Audrey bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I just started seeing someone.” Her eyes flitted toward Kenny, then settled back onto Bear. 

Bear didn’t miss the look, his own gaze darting toward Kenny for the briefest of seconds.

“Sorry,” Audrey repeated gently. Apologetically.

“No, it’s fine.” Bear slapped a smile onto his face. “Completely fine.” He tossed the Tangfastics onto his desk and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “Tell you what? I’m going to run and get coffee for all of us.”

“You don’t have to-” Audrey started.

“I want to.” Bear waved himself out the door. 

Everything went to utter shit not too long after that.

“It’s all just piling up,” Audrey whispered to Bear, after Eve Polastri had blown out of the office once again and they seemed no closer to resolving anything. 

“Like a terrible shitcake,” Bear agreed, and for some reason, that pulled a small smile out of Audrey. He dug around in his desk and pulled out a bright green Haribo packet. “Fancy a Giant Strawb?”

Audrey nodded. “I do, in fact, fancy a whole load of Giant Strawbs, thank you.” She pushed away from her desk and rolled over in her chair.

Bear poured a handful of Giant Strawbs into her palm. “I don’t know if Haribo heals all wounds, but you can never go wrong with Giant Strawbs.”

They went for a very long walk the afternoon the terrifying assassin had visited them. In fact, they had cleared out of the building a few minutes after she did.

“Hang on.” Bear ducked into a tuck shop and came out with a packet of Haribo Starmix. “The ones that look like fried eggs are the best. Hold out your hand.” He tore the packet open with his teeth.

“They all taste the same,” Audrey protested, and Bear looked at her with wounded eyes. 

“ _Au contraire_ ,” he said in a terrible French accent. “The fried eggs have their own special flavor.” He clasped his hand over her palm, lingering for a moment and leaving several adorable fried eggs behind. 

They _did_ taste a little different, Audrey decided. Or maybe it was the company she was keeping.

“Look,” Audrey said on the day they were packing up what little was left of the office, “since we’re all, you know, out of work now, I got you a little going away present.”

She placed a packet of Haribo Squidglets on his desk, the friendly stacked marshmallows smiling and winking up at them.

“Those are pretty cute,” Bear mused. “Still going to eat all of them though.”

“Well, they want you to eat them.” Instead of going back to her sparse desk, Audrey lingered. “You know what goes well with Squidglets?”

Bear shrugged. “Besides everything?”

“Coffee.” She blurted the word out. 

“I guess?” he said doubtfully.

“I mean…” Audrey cleared her throat. “They probably don’t go well with coffee, to be honest. But I was thinking, if you… maybe… fancy a cup? With me?”

“Yes,” Bear said immediately, jamming the Squidglets into his jacket pocket. “Yes, I do.”

Turned out, Squidglets went very well with coffee. Entirely well. Or maybe it was just the company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Audrey was so cute, and I had to give her a little bit of happiness! Hit me with your best comments if you're having fun, folks.


	5. Sparkle

They ate their way through Thailand, and Eve had absolutely no regrets about that.

Bangkok street food was a wonder to behold (and ingest). Vendors hawked food out of portable carts that lined the streets, and in only a few minutes, one could be eating noodly pad thai or grilled chicken skewers or savory dishes Eve didn’t have names for.

Didn’t stop her from _eating_ those dishes. She just couldn’t name whatever the hell she was eating. 

“This iced tea is killing me,” Villanelle moaned appreciatively. She clutched a plastic bag, straw poked through the top, filled with Thai-style iced tea, creamy and sweet and icy. 

“In a good way?” Eve said through a mouthful of shrimp pad thai that was cheaper than anything she’d ever get in London, yet one million times better.

“In _such_ a good way. I’m going to gain so much weight, and I don’t even care.” 

“Same. Definitely.”

In the northern city of Chiang Mai, they found a vendor at one of the many glittering, frenetic night markets, slinging a spicy coconut curry soup swirling with two different kinds of noodles. 

“I want to die here,” Villanelle muttered over a mouthful of noodles. “I want to die here, Eve, and I want you to pour this soup over my grave.”

“God, you’re so dramatic.” Eve rolled her eyes. “I just want them to fill a pool with this stuff-”

“Khao soi,” the vendor supplied helpfully.

“Khao soi,” Eve repeated. “I want them to fill an entire pool with khao soi and just… just let me live in it.”

In the ancient temple city of Ayutthaya, the sun-kissed golden stupas and crumbling Buddhist statues were outmatched only by the gigantic grilled river prawns that were bigger than Eve or Villanelle’s faces.

“I think if I ever came across a live one of these,” Eve said between juicy bites of prawn dripping with chili and lime juice, “I would concede defeat immediately and admit that the ocean really does bring the better guns.”

“Yes, but who is eating who right now?” Villanelle charmingly picked her teeth with a stiff prawn leg.

“True.” Lime juice dribbled attractively down Eve’s chin, and she really didn’t care. “But in the ocean, they’d have whales as back up.”

“Whales are vegetarians, Eve.” Villanelle rolled her eyes. “Duh.”

Eve just barely resisted the urge to lick her fingers. “Not all of them.” She licked her fingers anyway, and regretted nothing. “That’s why there are _killer_ whales, smarty pants.”

“Well, whatever.” Villanelle tossed some money on the table. “Let’s find more of that iced tea.”

They booked a charming beachfront villa on the island of Koh Samet. The ocean, so glittering blue and clear that Eve squinted even in sunglasses, lapped gently against powder-soft white sand. 

“I could stay here forever,” she breathed, over the slurping of Villanelle working through another Thai iced tea. She turned and scowled at her girlfriend. “Way to ruin the mood.”

Villanelle shrugged. “I really like this iced tea, okay?”

Koh Samet had no signature dishes, but they offered dining directly on the sand, tables situated at the water’s edge, low-tide waves licking at bare toes. And the seafood on offer was the freshest Eve had ever tasted.

“Can we just live here forever?” she said through a mouthful of grilled fish and pineapple. “Please?”

“Buy a villa?” Villanelle suggested. “Text Carolyn and tell her we quit? Maybe take up fishing?”

“Hey, we could prowl the beach every morning, selling sliced mango and sticky rice to tourists.” At Villanelle’s raised eyebrow, Eve added, “It’s a suggestion. Perhaps not one of my sparkling best suggestions, but-”

“We should definitely come back here,” Villanelle finished.

“Definitely. Absolutely, definitely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your commentary so far has been awesome. Thank you! Keep it coming!


	6. Quicksilver

They speed at which they fell into a workable routine surprised Villanelle. 

She didn’t really think of herself as a _routine person_. Routines were for people like Carolyn, who probably had her whole life managed in a series of tidy spreadsheets, or even people like Eve, who had done regular, normal people things like complete university (boring), get married (she had been wasted on that man), and buy (and sell) a flat.

“Hey, selling the flat with the shitload of _expensive_ windows netted me a decent profit,” Eve pointed out. (Even if half that profit had gone to her boring ex-husband.)

While Carolyn and Eve were women of routine, Villanelle fancied herself more of a… well, a _free spirit_ , albeit one with very good taste. Luxurious flats, clothing, cars, and of course, lovers that she could play with and adore and abandon at a moment’s notice without a second thought.

“Like that parade of women that left your apartment once?” Eve probably thought she was being very gracious in not scoffing or obviously rolling her eyes. 

But yes. Just like that parade of women.

And yet…

She took Carolyn’s job offer at MI6 (she had wanted an out from the life, and Carolyn had finally offered one). She unhesitatingly rented a flat with Eve (much posher than the one Eve had lived in with her boring husband). She committed to no more random killings (it had been killing her anyway).

Most importantly, she committed to _Eve._

No more one-night stands. No parade of beautiful, but ultimately disposable men and women. Just Eve.

“Just rub my feet without complaining,” Eve muttered, bare feet with terribly dry heels propped in Villanelle’s lap. “And then you’ll get your turn.”

The eagerness at which Villanelle jumped into a life with Eve surprised her nearly every day, but she regretted none of it.

Not a bit.

“If you could change anything,” Eve murmured, body wrapped around Villanelle’s, sheen of sweat on bare skin and tangle of bedsheets evidence of their lovemaking, “what would it be?”

“Nothing.” Villanelle stroked Eve’s beautiful hair. “Not even to meet you earlier.”

Eve raised both eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Villanelle whispered. “If we had met earlier, you wouldn’t have been ready. I wouldn’t have been ready.”

“Well, we did need to stab and shoot each other first,” Eve agreed.

Villanelle nodded. “Exactly. And now, here were are, Eve.”

“Just like this.”

“Just like this,” Villanelle echoed.

The speed at which it had all happened surprised her, but she wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Not a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Do throw a comment my way!


	7. Stop Hogging the Blankets!

“I am many things, Eve,” Villanelle said darkly, her voice breaking the nighttime silence. “I am selfish, vain, and petty.”

Eve looked up at her, confused and perhaps a bit wary.

“I can be callous and cruel,” Villanelle continued. “Childish and flippant.”

Peering at her through the gloom, Eve said nothing.

“I have murdered so many people, Eve.” Villanelle spoke in a deadly whisper. “Some, I regret. But most, I do not.”

Eve’s eyes widened.

“I am so many horrible things, Eve.” Villanelle fixed her with a cold stare. “But you know what I am not?”

Before Eve could respond, Villanelle reached toward her, slender fingers hooked into deadly talons. 

“I am not,” she said forcefully, “a _blanket hog_!”

Eve glowered at her as Villanelle’s claws sunk into the duvet that Eve had comfily, cozily, and with absolutely no regrets, burritoed herself into.

Leaving Villanelle with a single (800-thread count, Egyptian cotton) sheet.

“No, don’t!” Eve howled, trying to scootch away in her burrito-wrap duvet. “I’m so cold.”

“You must learn to share, Eve.” Villanelle tugged at the duvet. “You must give me some of the warmth.”

“I’m so cold,” Eve protested. “Have pity.”

“I have no pity.” Villanelle worked at the duvet, freeing it bit by bit. “It’s mid-winter, Eve. This is war.”

Eve snorted. “Cold war?”

A frazzled noise of disgust escaped Villanelle’s mouth at that, but she managed to successfully de-burrito her girlfriend, earning her an ugly glare in response.

“See?” Villanelle spread the duvet evenly over the both of them. “Now it’s fair. We have to _share_ , Eve.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Eve rolled onto her side. “Fine, whatever. We’ll learn to share.”

“ _You_ will learn to share,” Villanelle corrected.

“You said ‘we’.”

“I said-” Villanelle cut herself off with a snort. “Nevermind. Go to sleep.”

Eve was already asleep.

Two hours later, Villanelle woke up freezing cold and once again left with a single, inadequate sheet. Next to her, Eve slumbered peacefully, once again wrapped up in the duvet like a sushi roll.

“Eve!” Villanelle shouted. “Stop hogging the blanket!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throw me a fluffy comment or two if you enjoyed it!


	8. Unwavering

“I don’t care that they said pumpkin spice is ‘basic’.” Eve blew across the top of her steaming hot pumpkin spice latte. Generously topped with a sprinkle of cinnamon, of course. “It’s so good.”

“Who said it’s basic?” Villanelle had opted for the salted caramel mocha piled high with sugary whipped cream.

A fine choice, perhaps, and Eve respected her girlfriend’s bold decision to deviate from the mainstream, but she waited all year for pumpkin spice, dammit, and she was going to enjoy it.

Basic or not.

“Oh, you know.” Eve inhaled deeply, savoring the warm scent of nutmeg. “Like, trendsetters, I guess? Influencers?”

Villanelle frowned. “Which trendsetters and influencers?” She sipped her mocha, coming away with an adorable dollop of whipped cream on her nose.

Eve darted forward and licked it off, pulling a delighted smile out of Villanelle.

“But seriously, Eve,” Villanelle continued. “Which trendsetters?”

“Oh, you know. White girls.” Eve waved vaguely in the air. “White girls who’ve decided they’ve elevated themselves above ‘basic’ trends and now want to look down on the rest of us for enjoying our basic, delicious shit.”

“Oh.” Villanelle blew out a ‘pfft’ of annoyance. “Boring.” Another sip of her mocha left her with another cute bit of whipped cream on her nose.

Once again, Eve licked it off. “Are you doing that on purpose?”

“No, of course not.” Villanelle grinned. “Well… maybe. I like the licking.”

“You know I’d lick you even without the whipped cream,” Eve pointed out. “You’re very lickable.”

In the meantime though, she had her delicious pumpkin spice latte that she had been waiting all year for. Her girlfriend might have been lickable, but pumpkin spice was seasonal.

She lifted the cup to her mouth, took that first perfect sip, and felt it touch her _soul_. Her eyes fluttered closed and a moan of pleasure slipped out of her mouth.

“Oh, pumpkin spice,” she murmured. “You’re the only one for me, baby.”

“Hey,” Villanelle said. “Standing right here.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Eve smirked. “I’ll take you home and lick you up and down-”

Villanelle grinned.

“- because you’re mine for the taking any day of the year,” Eve continued without skipping a beat. “But pumpkin spice is my seasonal mistress.”

“Okay.” Villanelle nodded. “Okay, that’s fair.”

“Oh, pumpkin spice,” Eve whispered into her cup. “I love you, baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a lot of fun writing these. If you're having fun reading them, drop me a note (or a pumpkin spice latte, if that's more your jam)!


	9. Monochromatic

The rain came down in unrelenting sheets, drenching anyone unlucky enough to be caught outside. Rivulets rushed down the sidewalk and poured unrelentingly into the gutters and the whole world seemed to be washed in dull gray color scheme.

Inside their adorable flat in Berlin (rented off Airbnb, of course), on the other hand, it was quite cozy.

“Adorable is not a word I would ever use for Germans,” Villanelle pointed out. “You’re weird.”

“But this flat _is_ adorable,” Eve protested, gesturing to the folksy wooden handicraft figurines of men in lederhosen playing what was probably oompa-oompa music on a variety of tiny instruments. “Look at these little guys.”

Villanelle scrunched her nose up. “Tacky.”

“Cute,” Eve shot back.

“Hideous,” Villanelle corrected. “Don’t even think about slipping one into your suitcase when we leave.”

Eve frowned, but didn’t dignify that with a response. (She absolutely, definitely had _not_ considered slipping one into her suitcase. Hadn’t even chosen which one she would have taken.)

So there. 

After a couple of false starts, Eve got the fireplace to work. (Turned out, all one had to do was turn the knob, being a gas fireplace and all, but she’d take her victories where she could find them.)

Villanelle found an uber-posh, chrome-plated espresso machine in the kitchen - the kind one might find in an especially upmarket coffee shop - and after playing around with it for five or ten minutes (and cursing at it once or twice), she managed to brew a few miniscule cups of the stuff.

“That’s a lot of work for what amounts to one stupid shot of coffee.” She slurped loudly at her drink and shrugged. “Not bad coffee though. I’ll give it that.”

They took their tiny espresso cups and the box of pastries they had bought from a bakery that probably smelled like heaven, if God or whoever were into baking, and cozied up in front of the fire.

“Grab the blanket.” Eve gestured to the especially folksy-looking blanket that had been draped across the back of the sofa. “I want to cuddle like something out of a magazine spread.”

“Or a porno,” Villanelle suggested, plopping down next to Eve and draping the blanket over the both of them.

“Nah.” Eve shook her head. “A porno would have a bearskin rug.”

Villanelle frowned thoughtfully. “That’s fair.”

They cuddled up against each other, pulling the folksy (“Tacky,” Villanelle added) blanket tightly around themselves.

Eve rested her head on Villanelle’s shoulders, closed her eyes, and exhaled slowly. “This is nice. You smell nice.”

“Do I smell like power and money?”

“No.” Eve snorted. “God, no. You smell like coffee and pastries. Which is better, by the way.”

Villanelle wrapped an arm around Eve’s waist. “So much better.”

“Yep,” Eve murmured. “Much, much better. Now feed me a pastry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blah blah, you know the drill. Comments are always welcome and encouraged.


	10. Once Upon a Time

_“Once upon a time…”_

“Why do these stories always start with ‘once upon a time’?” Villanelle groused. “Why not start with something more original?”

Eve rolled her eyes and paused the film. “You mean like, ‘a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away’? That original enough for you?”

“No, Eve.” Villanelle rolled her eyes right back. “That’s not original at all. That’s just _Star Wars_.”

“Can I unpause this now?”

“... yes.”

 _”... in a far away land, a young prince lived in a shining castle.”_

“They’re not even going to tell us which land?” Villanelle scowled. “This is nonsense.”

“You’re nonsense,” Eve returned easily. “Now be quiet and watch the movie.”

_“Although he had everything his heart desired, the prince was spoiled, selfish and unkind.”_

Eve glanced at her girlfriend. “Nothing to say?”

“I’m being _quiet_ , Eve. Just like you told me to.”

_“But then, one winter's night, an old beggar woman came to the castle and offered him a single rose in return for shelter from the bitter cold.”_

“Stranger danger!” Villanelle shouted at the screen. “Don’t do it!”

“Oh, come on.” Eve paused the film again. “She’s an old _beggar_ woman.”

“She could be in disguise as a beggar woman,” Villanelle pointed out. “She probably wants to rob the prince blind. She probably wants to murder him in his bed. She _probably_ has an entire spy network that has been staking out his ‘shining castle’ for months.”

Eve rolled her eye so hard, they nearly fell out of her head. “It’s a Disney movie.”

“So?” Villanelle’s eyes narrowed. “Aren’t these movies supposed to teach small children moral lessons?”

Wordlessly, Eve unpaused the movie. 

_“Repulsed by her haggard appearance, the prince sneered at the gift and turned the old woman away.”_

“Good! Smart boy!”

“Shut up.”

_“But she warned him not to be deceived by appearances, for beauty is found within. And when he dismissed her again, the old woman's ugliness melted away to reveal a beautiful enchantress.”_

“See? See?” Villanelle flailed about, nearly knocking Eve off the couch. “What did I tell you? She was only in disguise as a beggar woman, and clearly she had a more devious ulterior motive at play.”

_“The prince tried to apologize, but it was too late, for she had seen that there was no love in his heart. And as punishment, she transformed him into a hideous beast and placed a powerful spell on the castle, and all who lived there.”_

Villanelle made a sound of disgust. “What an asshole.”

“Well, yeah,” Eve agreed. “That’s the point. He has to learn-”

“No.” Villanelle shook her head. “The _enchantress_ is an asshole. The prince is like, what, ten? Why should he invite some ugly old woman that he doesn’t even know into his home on her say-so?”

“Because it was cold,” Eve said slowly, “and she was an old woman?”

“No, she was an _enchantress_ , and she laid a trap for this poor kid.” Villanelle threw up her hands. “Why was a prince answering the door to his own shining castle anyway?”

“Look, are we watching this movie or not?”

“Fine, fine. Unpause it.”

_“Ashamed of his monstrous form, the Beast concealed himself inside his castle with a magic mirror as his only window to the outside world. The rose she had offered was truly an enchanted rose, which would bloom until his twenty-first year.”_

“I told you!” Villanelle pointed an accusatory finger at the screen. “I told you that woman was an asshole! The prince was a stupid, idiotic child, and she punished him for it.”

“Oh my God.” Eve leaned her head back against the couch. “Take it up with Disney. Write them a letter. Tweet your grievances. Let the world know your displeasure with a movie from like 1991.”

“Maybe I will, Eve,” Villanelle said darkly. “Maybe I will. Now unpause it.”

_“If he could learn to love another and earn her love in return by the time the last petal fell, then the spell would be broken. If not, he would be doomed to remain a beast for all time.”_

“Oh, so the enchantress is homophobic too? What if the prince is gay, Eve? What then?”

“He’s not gay,” Eve snapped. 

“Oh yeah?” Villanelle folded her arms. “Why can’t he be gay?”

“Because it’s motherfucking Disney in 1991.”

“Okay.” Villanelle nodded. “Okay, that’s fair.”

“Can I unpause the stupid movie now?” Eve ground the words out. 

_“As the years passed, he fell into despair and lost all hope. For who could ever learn to love a beast?”_

“Well, apparently Beauty does,” Villanelle snorted. “I mean, it’s right there in the title.”

Eve screamed into one of the throw pillows. 

“Jeez, Eve, relax.” Villanelle patted her on the shoulder. “It’s only a movie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was way too much fun to write. I hope you had as much fun reading them as I had writing them.


	11. Radiance

Erin was a pretty good looking bird, as James’ mates back in London might’ve said, though James would have been happy to settle on something simple like ‘pretty.’

Or radiant.

That was a good word too. 

Her hair was all radiant-like, glowy in the moonlight. And she had really nice eyes too. And a bang-up sense of humor. And if he had gone a bit stupid for her, well, it’s not like anyone would have noticed.

“Shut your bake, you wick motherfucker,” Michelle snapped, elbowing him in the side and abruptly dragging him back to the reality of doing homework around Erin’s kitchen table.

“Ow.” James rubbed his side. “What the hell? I didn’t even open my mouth.”

“Aye, but it was obvious you were thinking something.” Orla waved her pencil in James’ general direction. “Could see the wheels turning in your head. Could see the smoke coming out your ears.”

“Share what you were thinking, James.” Clare nibbled a shortcake biscuit. “But do it quickly so we can get back to this assignment.”

“He looked so dreamy.” Orla snatched a biscuit out of the tin. “He was definitely thinking about somebody.”

“Catch yourself on. Who the hell would he be thinking about?” Michelle snorted. “And who would be thinking about that English fucker?”

Erin said nothing. Didn’t even look up from the paper she was scribbling on.

Was that a good thing? 

James couldn’t tell if that were a good thing or not. He crammed a biscuit into his mouth, chewed furiously, and tried to think of a good retort. 

“Going on the pull tonight then, James?” Erin still didn’t look up. Writing assignments were apparently very captivating. 

“That sounds dirty.” James frowned. “Was that dirty?”

“Only in your filthy fucking mind.” Michelle slapped the biscuit James had just grabbed out of his hand, then snatched it up and crunched down on it. “You wee minger.”

“What the hell does that even mean?” 

James was torn between slumping in his seat or throwing up his hands. He tried to do both, but that ended up looking awkward and kind of weird, and Clare shook her head sadly (or maybe judgmentally, but probably a mix of both) at him. 

“I don’t think he’s a minger,” Erin said quietly. “Wee or otherwise.”

“Ooh?” Orla crooned, through a mouthful of shortcake biscuit. “You think he’s a beave, don’t you, Erin?”

James closed his eyes and let out a garbled sound of frustration. “Why can’t you people talk like normal people?”

Wait.

He cracked an eye open. Looked at Erin. “You don’t?” Hopefully that was a good thing, not being a minger. Wee or otherwise. 

“You’re outta your head.” Michelle scowled. “You’re talking about my _cousin_.”

“Erin fancies James.” Orla looked critically at James. Or maybe judgmentally. (Probably both.) “But does James fancy Erin?”

Erin made a sound that kind of reminded James of what a pterodactyl screeching might sound like and abruptly scraped her chair back and stood, nearly knocking every glass of milk over and earning her a dirty look from everyone at the table.

Well, James tried to keep it neutral.

“You’re making a puppy dog face.” Orla poked James with a biscuit. “A hopeful puppy dog face.”

So much for neutral. James stuffed a biscuit in his gub. 

“Careful, Erin,” Clare admonished. “Even if you fancy James-”

“Gross,” Michelle muttered. “Pervs, the lot of you.”

“-I don’t want to have to start this assignment over again.”

“I’ve said too much.” Erin twisted her hands together. “I’m out of my head. Just ignore me.”

“Great.” Clare tapped pencil against paper. “Back to work.”

“Unless you don’t want to ignore me.” Erin looked at James. “But if you do, that’s totally grand too.”

“Loving the self-confidence there, Erin.” Michelle rolled her eyes.

Erin cringed, reached for a biscuit, and crammed it into her mouth.

“I don’t want to ignore you,” James assured her through a mouthful of spitty, yet delicious, shortbread biscuit. “At all.”

“You’re going to make me boke.” Michelle mimed sticking a finger down her throat. “The both of you.”

“Maybe you better take your forbidden romance outside,” Orla suggested. “Don’t want to clean up any boke.”

James rolled his eyes. “We don’t have a forbidden romance.”

“No,” Erin agreed. “If and when we have a romance, it’ll be very… uh… bidden.”

James beamed at her.

Erin beamed back.

Michelle gagged.

All in all, James decided, it was a good start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just binged all of Derry Girls, and I had to write something! Comments, questions, and kudos are a writer's craic (or crack, perhaps?), so don't be shy! Come say!


	12. Clenched Fists

Halfway through watching _Blair Witch Project_ , Erin decided two things:

One - if a couple of eejits wanted to go faffin’ about in the scary forest after the locals plainly told them not to go, then they probably deserved whatever they got.

Two - she was probably going to need a fresh pair of kex by the time the picture was over, and she wasn’t too proud to admit that.

“Why don’t they just leave the stupid forest?” She squeezed James’ hand hard enough to break it, but he wasn’t complaining, probably because the English were supposedly made of strong stuff. “Forget about the stupid documentary and leave the forest.”

“I mean, they’re trying?” James whispered. “But that one bloke kicked the map into the river, and now they’re all lost, and the witch is probably going to do them in, and-”

“Would you two keep quiet?” the crotchety man next to James snapped. “Show a little respect for their unfortunate predicament.”

“Well, they shouldn’t have gone in there to begin with!” Erin hissed, and then stuffed a mouthful of salty popcorn down her gub when the very senior lady next to her threw her an entirely unwarranted, yet extremely dirty look.

(Really though, what were people of their advanced ages doing at a picture like that? Erin wouldn’t have been surprised if either the crotchety man or the very senior lady gave themselves a heart attack. She was feeling pretty close to one, after all.)

She decided on a third thing right then - this was a _terrible_ date movie. And judging by James’ wide eyes and iron-grip on her hand, he felt the same.

The company was good though, so there was that.

By the time the one poor mucker disappeared into the woods, probably to be tortured and killed by the witch, leaving the other two to run around screaming their fool heads off, Erin was just about done.

“Right,” she whispered desperately into James’ ear, “if we ever decide to go romantic camping-”

“We’re never going to go romantic camping,” he insisted. “After this, we’re never leaving our houses again.”

“Grand, but just in case…” She heroically swallowed her fear and forced herself to speak. “Just in case we change our minds-”

He shook his head rather forcefully. “We won’t.”

“But just in case we _do_ -”

“Will you shut your damn mouths!” the man behind them shouted, hurling a few pieces of salted popcorn at the back of their heads.

“Just let it be known,” Erin said quickly, “that I want you to let me blow my nose before I give my sobbing, heartfelt confession into the camera.”

“Duly noted,” James said, and when the man behind them urged them to ‘shut the fuck up already!’ James turned and snapped, “Hey mate, you’re the one doing all the shouting.”

By the time sobbing confession girl and her unfortunate arse of a friend were tearing around the terrifying horror house of bloody hand prints, Erin decided she was never, ever, ever going to see another film.

“No more pictures,” she croaked. “No pictures.”

“Ever,” James agreed. “Only Disney.”

“Not even Disney.”

“Fine by me.”

_”Josh!”_ the sobbing confession girl screamed, only to turn a corner and find him _pinned to the wall or stuck to the wall or Dear Lord in Heaven what was going on what the hell was going on what the hell kind of-_

“This film is cracker, isn’t it?” a dreamy voice whispered into Erin’s ear, and Erin screamed, threw her popcorn into the air, and nearly wet herself.

“Orla?” James whipped his head around. “Michelle? _Clare_? What the hell are you lot doing here?”

Only when Erin was absolutely certain she hadn’t, in fact, pissed herself, did she turn around to see the pack of them crouching behind their seats.

“It’s a free cinema,” Michelle said, then almost as an afterthought, added, “you English gobshite.”

“It is _not_ a free cinema,” Clare protested. “We paid good money to get in here.”

“But why are you here?” Erin still hadn’t released her iron grip on James’ hand. She wasn’t sure if she ever would.

“We couldn’t let you experience the horror all by yourselves.” Orla patted Erin on the shoulder. “What kind of date would that be?”

“For the love of God,” the same man screeched, “shut the fuck up!”

“Oh, fuck off,” Michelle snapped. “It’s the end credits, and they’re all dead. Are you happy? They’re dead now.”

“Actually,” Clare said, “this isn’t really a ‘found footage’ documentary. It was all faked.”

Everyone turned to look at her, eyes wide and mouths agape.

Clare shrugged. “It’s just your standard horror picture, I’m afraid.”

“Well, it’s a very clever one,” Orla observed. “Do you think they kill the lot of them and bring them back to life every night?”

“You mean,” Erin said slowly, “I nearly wet myself and had a heart attack-”

“And those wankers aren’t even dead?” James finished.

Erin looked at him.

James shrugged. “Well, they’re not.”

Abruptly Erin huffed, shoved the remainder of the popcorn into James’ hands, and stood. “Well, my point definitely stands then. No more pictures.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, these characters are so much fun to write. Hope y'all liked it too, and if you did, drop me a comment and say hello.


	13. Whispers

“We should do something really romantic,” James whispered, and Erin stared at him for a long, wordless moment. The two of them lay side by side on Erin’s bed, which was already pretty romantic, if she did say so herself. 

“I do like the way you speak,” she finally said. “You said ‘sumfink’ right there.”

James frowned. “I didn’t.”

“You did.” Erin grinned. “It’s cute though. I like it.”

James smiled and was probably about to say sumfink adorable, only Michelle gagged loudly and obnoxiously from the beanbag chair on the other side of the room. 

“Look at those two pastie-lip fuckers.” She glanced at Orla and Clare. “I’m absolutely scundered for them.” She waved in the general direction of her face. “My whole face is going red.”

“It is pretty red,” Orla acknowledged. She dug into the crisps packet, rustling through it as loudly as possible before shoving a handful of crisps down her gub. “Still, they’re a fair bit of entertainment.”

“Aye, you tell no lies.” Michelle folded her arms. “Seeing there’s fuck-all to do in this town.”

Erin sat up. “Why are the three of you still here?”

Clare slurped at whatever caffeinated beverage she had gotten herself hooked on that week. “You invited us? To study? You invited us here to study?”

Erin frowned. “We finished studying like…”

“Ten whole minutes ago.” James covered his face with his hands. “I was hoping for a nice, romantic evening once the studying part was done.”

“I reckon you have to _go_ somewhere for that,” Orla mused through another mouthful of crisps. “A romantic cafe, perhaps.”

James peeked at Erin through his fingers. “Are there any romantic cafes in Derry?”

“We’ll find one,” Erin said firmly, though her ma chose that exact moment to call upstairs that it was late and everyone needed to be getting on home.

Clare turfed her empty can in the bin on the way out the door. “I wish someone would take me to a cafe.”

“I’ll take you,” Michelle offered.

“I mean, a _romantic_ cafe,” Clare said.

“Right, I know what you meant.” Michelle trundled Clare out the door, and James waved at Erin and Orla before pulling the door shut behind the three of them.

Erin sighed and flopped back down on the bed. “There’s no romantic cafes to be had in Derry.”

“You know, people are whispering.” Orla crawled into bed next to her. “About you and James.”

“Catch yourself on. Which people?”

“Jenny and Aisling.”

Erin made a ‘pfft’ sound at the ceiling. “I thought you meant like, _people_ people. Actual people.”

“Pretty sure they’re actual people, Erin,” Orla said seriously, then dropped her voice a notch and said, “So right after maths today, I nipped into the bog for a tinkle-”

“Why are we whispering?” Erin stage-whispered.

“Because Mammy said it’s more dramatic when you whisper secrets,” Orla clarified, and Erin couldn’t argue with that sound logic. “So anyway, Jenny and Aisling, they said James is a ‘fine ride’.”

“You’re having me on.”

“I tell no lies.” Orla shook her head. “They said James is a ‘fine ride’ and you’re being selfish, not sharing the wee English lad with the rest of the class.”

Erin felt an absurd little giggle bubble up at the thought. “They said that?”

“They said that.”

“Don’t tell Michelle,” Erin giggled. “She’ll boke.”

“I already told her.” Off Erin’s outraged expression, Orla added, “Why do you think she was threatening to boke earlier?”

“I’m surprised she didn’t try to do us in then.”

Orla leaned her head against Erin’s shoulder. “Michelle’s a dick, but she’s our dick.”

Erin nodded. “That she is.” 

“We’re all dicks together,” Orla added.

“United in our dickishness?”

“Aye.”

Erin couldn’t keep the stupid, happy little smile off her face. 

So Jenny and Aisling (and maybe actual _people_ people) thought James was a ride, did they? 

Maybe she _was_ being a dick, but that felt… pretty feckin’ grand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always warmly welcomed, encouraged, and appreciated.


	14. Possibilities

Halfway through brunch at the most romantic cafe Michelle managed to find (because she wasn’t faffin’ about when she told Clare she’d find a place), she was gobsmacked with a sudden moment of motherfucking clarity:

_Was she a wee lezz too?_

“Michelle?” Clare snapped her fingers in front of Michelle’s face. “Where’d you go?”

Michelle shook her head, shoved the thought aside, and then realized Clare had nucked the toast right off her plate and was currently chewing on a delicious mouthful of hot, buttery Veda. 

Wait. 

Nevermind the damn Veda. She could get some oul Veda anytime, but _this_? This required some further fucking thought. 

Serious contemplation. Nothing hasty like.

“I think I’m a wee lezz too,” she blurted.

Instead of welcoming her into the club with open arms, Clare merely nibbled on her toast wedge and said, “I didn’t think it was contagious.”

“I’m serious,” Michelle said on the walk home. “It all makes sense.” 

“Right.” Clare rolled her eyes. “One brunch date at ‘Hansel n’ Griddle’ doesn’t make you a lesbian, Michelle.”

“I know that,” Michelle scoffed. “You don’t think I know that? Look, I have _reasons_.” She began ticking the reasons off her fingers. “I think I’m interested in lads, but I never get serious about them. I always aim for comfortably out of reach, right? That means something.”

Another hard eye roll. “It means you’re full of yourself.”

“It does mean something,” she insisted to James that evening. 

In fact, she insisted loudly and repeatedly enough that James finally threw his Playstation controller aside and looked at her with (fond, probably) exasperation.

“All right, Michelle, you have my attention. What does it mean?”

“It means I’m a motherfucking lezzer, you English dose.” She resisted the urge to whack him on his stupid English neb. “Clean the wax out of your fucking ears.”

“Okay, fine.” He gestured to the telly, where Raiden was frozen midway through lamping the shit out of Scorpion. “Now can we please get back to _Mortal Kombat_?”

The moment classes were finished the next day, Michelle waylaid Clare before anyone else could get their grabby mitts on her. (Well, excepting James, Orla, and Erin, who were already with her, but what was done was done.) 

“Right,” she said without preamble. “I think we should kiss.”

“What, all of us?” Orla asked. “Seems like it would get a bit complicated.”

“Brilliant, Michelle.” Clare glowered up at her. “Right on campus. Start everyone whispering, give myself a complete cack attack, because,” her voice rose into a near frantic pitch, “I know you’re just having me on!”

“Stop having her on, Michelle,” Erin offered hesitantly, but as she was holding the English fucker’s hand, what did she know about lesbionics? 

“I’m not. Also, shut the fuck up.” Michelle shook her head. “Cross my heart, Clare Devlin, I’m not.”

Well, what was the phrase? In for a goddamn penny, in for a motherfucking pound?

“It doesn’t have to be on campus. It can be wherever you like.” She gestured expansively. “In Derry, because fuck, we’re trapped here, but you catch my meaning, and-”

“Stall the ball!” Clare made a frantic t-gesture with her hands. “Stall the ball right there, Michelle!” She shooed at everyone else. “The rest of you? Find something else to do.”

They found a quiet corner, away from school, away from everyone else, and Michelle squared her shoulders and licked her lips.

Clare did the same. “Right. Let’s do it.”

Michelle cleared her throat. “I’ve never done it.”

“Me either.”

“No, I mean, not even with lads.” Michelle let out a breathless huff of laughter. “You know me, I’m all mouth, but I’ve never done a fucking thing with anyone.”

“You have a pretty mouth,” Clare pointed out.

Another huff of laughter. “Grand.”

They stood there for a moment, until Clare gestured impatiently. “Well? Let’s crack on. I’m not getting any younger.”

“Right. Cracking on then.”

Michelle reached for Clare’s hand, and when Clare didn’t pull away, she took that as a sign to awkwardly bend down and plant a hesitant kiss right on Clare’s lips.

“That’s it?” Clare blinked. “That’s all there is to it?”

Michelle sighed. Their first kiss, and she had gunked it up.

Brilliant. 

She was about to laugh it off - _haha, just kidding about the whole wee lezz thing!_ \- but then Clare smiled and said, “Better do it again, all right? Just to make sure.”

“Right.” Michelle beamed at her. “Just to make sure.”

They did it again. And one more time for good measure. And a third time after that, just to be really, really sure.

And damn.

Damn, it was nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, fuck-a-doodle-doo, Michelle n' Clare deserve a little love today.


	15. Breathless

The fact that they had managed to pull off the Great American Roadtrip after that first, bruising year of uni was a grand testament to Erin and Clare’s absolutely cracker planning skills.

“We’ve got the whole itinerary,” Erin informed the group proudly. “All three weeks of it, down to every stop.”

“We even planned in loo breaks,” Clare added. “At some of America’s best rest stops.”

“Well, fuck-a-doodle, babe.” Michelle slung an arm around Clare. “There’s a reason we all think you’re so sexy.”

Erin graciously didn’t mention that she had _also_ planned the itinerary too, thank you very much.

Okay, she did. Five times, until Michelle told her to quit slabbering. 

The fact that they had let Michelle drive their rental car _at all_ and hadn’t completely _died_ several times over was some sort of minor miracle.

“You’re on the wrong side of the road!” James screamed more than once. 

“We’re all going to die!” Orla added, though in an absolutely lurred way that left Erin with far too many questions and not a single answer. 

“I think I just wet myself,” Clare muttered. “And the next rest stop is an hour away.” 

And so the fact that they made it to the Grand Canyon _alive_ and in _one piece_...

“I think that’s worth celebrating, bitches!” Michelle popped open the boot of the car and pulled out a six-pack of some American beer that none of them had seen before.

“We’re not _drinking_ at the Grand Canyon, Michelle.” Erin tried not to sound too huffy, but her hands ended up on her hips. “We’re here to take in the sights.”

“Also, isn’t the drinking age here fairly geriatric?” Orla asked. “How did you get ahold of that?”

“You know what?” James reached for one of the beers. “I don’t care. I need something to settle my nerves.”

“I knew there was a reason I kept you around.” Michelle grinned. “Dicko.”

And so that’s how they ended up viewing the Grand Canyon a wee bit sozzled. 

“But what a view,” Orla breathed. “You can see why they call it ‘grand.’”

James slid an arm around Erin’s waist. “I mean, I’m not going to say it was worth almost dying for, but…”

“It is pretty grand,” Erin murmured, leaning her head against his shoulder. “And I’m glad we came here.”

They stood like that for a few moments, just taking in the view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo, midway through Flufftober!


	16. Always

The five of them lay spread out on three blankets, James’ head in Erin’s lap, Michelle’s curls spread out over Clare’s thighs, and Orla sandwiched between the four of them.

James’ feet stretched just beyond the blanket, and he could feel the sand of Benone Beach between his bare toes. 

“Salty toes and sandy kisses,” he murmured.

Michelle scowled, but didn’t bother lifting her head. “The fuck you on about?”

“Or maybe it’s ‘sandy toes and salty kisses’.” James frowned. “Pretty sure I saw it on a sign somewhere.”

Erin stroked his hair, and James did his very best not to purr like some sort of cat. Like a giant cat about to drift off to sleep in his girl’s (cattish) lap.

The fuck was he on about again?

“Pretty sure you’re out of your head.” Michelle jabbed him lightly in the side. “English dose.”

Orla hummed thoughtfully. “I might’ve seen that sign he’s talking about. In that touristy shop where we bought our sandwiches, mind.”

“Grand. Let’s pick it up on our way home.” Erin dragged her fingernails across James’ scalp, and he really, truly was close to purring like some demented cat in human form. “Souvenir of the day, and all.”

“We’re going to need as many souvenirs as we can get.” Clare managed to sound both half-asleep and seconds away from a complete cack attack. 

She was supremely multi-talented that way. 

“Before we all go our separate ways,” Clare finished. “And possibly never see each other again.”

“We’ll see each other again,” Orla said. “Holidays and summers and all.”

“But what if we don’t?” Clare’s voice rose in pitch. “What if we forget all about each other? What if we forget what we all look like? What if we forget each other’s _names_?”

“Oh, wise up,” Michelle snapped, but if there was a hitch in her voice, James pretended not to notice. “We still have time.”

“Not much,” Erin said softly. “Months, not years.”

“We’re not going to forget each other’s _names_ ,” James said. “We’re off to uni, not to the amnesiac ward of a hospital.”

“You reckon hospitals have amnesiac wards?” Orla mused. “How do the patients remember where to go?”

“Listen, bitches,” Michelle said. “The English minger’s sound-”

“I am?”

“-for _once_ ,” Michelle finished. “No one’s forgetting anybody. We’re Derry Girls. We’ll be up each other holes ‘til we croak.”

“Charming,” Erin said, but she was smiling. 

“And we’ll always have this day,” Orla murmured. “And once we find that touristy shop, we’ll have that sign too.”

James closed his eyes and let the moment wash over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just *wipes tear away* love these characters so much, you guys. (・∀・)


	17. Yours

For their third anniversary, James took Erin to a posh London spa. 

Neither of them had ever been to a spa before, and this one received rave reviews from the travel magazine James had been flipping through while waiting for his appointment with the university bursar. 

“Coconut Matrix?” Erin stared up at the sign, all soothing-neon colors and relaxing font choices that promised (much) money well spent. “You reckon the owners watched that beezer Keanu Reeves picture one too many times?”

“That picture was cracker.” James squeezed Erin’s hand. “Heard they might make a sequel.”

“I love when you sound like us.” Erin leaned her head against James’ shoulder. “Now don’t spoil it by saying you sound like a ‘right proper’ Derry Girl.”

“I wasn’t going to say that at all,” he protested, and Erin merely rolled her eyes at him.

Okay, maybe he _had_ been about to say that. 

Maybe.

The very posh spa attendant handed them extremely fluffy bathrobes, and when James and Erin met outside of their respective changing rooms, they spent a moment looking each other up and down.

“You look very cute,” he said, right as she said, “You look like a wee bunny rabbit.”

He’d take that as a compliment.

They got lucky in the steam room - well, not _lucky_ lucky, but lucky enough that no one else was there and they could lose the bathrobes for a bit.

“You think we might…” he started, and she cut him off with a swift, “Don’t even think about it.”

Well, he thought about it a _little._

Okay, a lot.

“You’re thinking about it.” She poked him in the chest. “I can see the steam coming out your ears, James.”

“It’s a steam room,” he reminded her.

“Aye, so it is,” she agreed, taking a quick juke at his junk. “But you’re just horny.”

“Not _just._ ”

“Don’t start me.”

“Not _just_.”

“Watch yourself, James.” 

They were both smiling like a couple of eejits, and that floating feeling of happiness lasted James all the way to the couples’ massage room.

The couples massage put him right to sleep. 

“Not sure if that was the intended goal, but that bloke worked his magic.”

“Aye, you were out in minutes. Took me a bit longer.”

They sat in lounge chairs facing a very soothing indoor waterfall, which was backed by even more soothing, zen-like music being pumped out of speakers cleverly disguised as rocks. 

“I should learn how to do massages,” Erin mused.

James glanced at her. “You could practice on me.”

“That would be the idea.” She squeezed his hand.

“Grand idea.” He felt compelled to add, “My body is yours for the taking.”

She snorted. “Well, it better be.”

James smiled and let the zen music works its soothing magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like these two deserve a break, so let's give them one!


	18. Things Left Unsaid

Orla might not have been beezer with words, but she tried to make her feelings - especially her loving feelings - known. 

She read a book on _loving-kindness_ once with her mammy. Buddhist philosophy was absolutely clinker, even if some of it went past her head a bit, but she took the main lesson to heart well enough.

“Don’t be a dose, Orla, luv,” her mammy had said, maybe not quite quoting from the book directly but getting the gist of it. “Especially to the ones you love.”

And so she tried.

When Erin was raging at her for hoaking through her stuff again - even if, in all fairness, Orla had only been taking a quick juke, and it wasn’t like she was pawing through Erin’s kex, mind - she tried to be extra lovingly-kind to her afterward.

“I made us some tea,” she said, letting herself into Erin’s room, holding a festive Christmas tray out in front of her, “and I nucked the good Easter biscuits out the cabinet.”

Erin perked right up at that. “The Dairy Milks?”

Orla grinned. “The very same.”

Or when Clare was seconds from having a complete cack attack, usually over something school-related, Orla did her very best to keep Clare from doing her own head in.

“Watch yourself, Clare.” Orla put a lovingly-kind hand on Clare’s shoulder. “I heard on _Oprah_ that stress takes years off your life.”

“ _Oprah_?” Clare repeated, blinking up at her furiously and likely seconds from hyperventilating or screaming. “Why were you watching _Oprah_?”

“ _Oprah_ is some good craic, it is.” Orla nodded. “And her advice is dead-on. Reckon it’s got to be if you’re class enough to have your own program named after you.”

Clare narrowed her eyes. “Quit faffing about, Orla. We have a _lot_ of work to focus on.”

But Clare didn’t have a cack attack, and so Orla figured the loving-kindness had worked, at least a little bit.

And when Michelle and James were going at it again - something about James being an English dicko, or maybe a motherfuckin’ English dicko, because Michelle really fancied those words these days - Orla used her loving-kindness skills to intervene.

“You know what would be grand?” She licked her lips. “A tayto, cheese, and onion sandwich. Right now. I can just taste it.”

“We just… we just fuckin’ ate.” Michelle scowled. “Like an hour ago. How are you hungry again?”

“I could eat,” James mused. “Maybe not… that. But I could eat.”

“With some chips,” Orla added. “A whole pile of them.”

“Maybe something less greasy?” James suggested. “But I could definitely eat. I’m hungry.”

“Oh, shut your bake,” Michelle snapped. “You’re always hungry.” 

“I’m a growing lad,” James protested. “I’m supposed to be always hungry.”

Michelle glowered at him, then shrugged. “Right, you know what? I’m hungry too. Let’s find wherever the hell Erin and Clare got off to and hit the chippy.”

James frowned. “I thought we said something less greasy?”

“No, _you_ said.” Michelle rolled her eyes. “And we’ll find a salad or something for you, you whinging minger.”

Orla followed her friends, a very satisfied smile on her face. Maybe she wasn’t terribly good with words, but her friends knew how much she loved them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orla needed some love, so let's give her some.


	19. Hand Holding

If Michelle were a wee lezz, and Clare were a wee lezz, and they were going to be wee lezzes _together_ , then they were going to do the thing good and motherfucking proper like.

“You want to hold hands?” Clare took a deep breath. “In public?”

Michelle rolled her eyes. “No, in the bog.”

“The bog?” Clare blinked. 

“Aye, fancy slipping your hand under the stall divider and hooking our pinkies together? So romantic.”

“You’re having me on.”

“No shit I’m having you on.” If Michelle rolled her eyes any harder, they probably would’ve rolled right out of her head. “We can’t be broke about this, right?”

“Right,” Clare said cautiously, though she seemed seconds from running for the hills. “Because we’ve nothing to hide.”

“Right.” Michelle held out her hand. “We’ll start small. Like at a wee shop.”

“Right.” Clare grabbed her hand. “A wee shop.” She took a breath. “I can do a wee shop.”

“We can both do a wee shop,” Michelle agreed. “Shops are just fucking cracker.”

She promptly dragged Clare toward Dennis’s Wee Shop, while Clare howled, “But why this wee shop? Why this wee shop out of all other wee shops?”

To her credit, she stopped howling once Michelle hauled her through the door, taking a deep breath and fanning her face with her free hand.

“Oh, look.” Dennis barely glanced up from the magazine he was flipping through. “It’s Rain Wain with Quentin Tarantino.”

“Right then,” Michelle said loudly, with an iron grip on Clare’s hand. “We’re a couple wee lezzes and we’re here to hoak through the bins, maybe buy a couple sweets.”

Dennis rolled his eyes. “Grand.”

After a quick juke through the shop, Michelle and Clare placed a Dairy Milk bar each on the counter. 

“That’s it then?” Dennis raised an eyebrow. 

“Well.” Clare took a deep breath. “You’re showing support for our community in selling us these chocolate bars without raging at us, and our community thanks you for your heartfelt and generous support.”

Dennis looked at Michelle. “Is her head cut?”

Michelle shook her head.

“Then I absolutely scundered for Melissa Etheridge here.” He rang up the Dairy Milks and pushed them back across the counter. “Just broke to the bone.”

Clare frowned.

Michelle picked up the Dairy Milks. “Fuckin’ grand, Dennis.”

Dennis picked his magazine back up. “Saunter out before I do start ragin’.”

Outside the shop, Clare peeled the wrapper off her Dairy Milk and took frantic bites between deep breaths.

“See?” Michelle grinned. “That wasn’t so bad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like Dennis needed to make an appearance, and so here he is.


	20. Enigmatic

_Enigma._

Clare thought the word was absolutely cracker.

_Enigma: a person or thing that is mysterious, puzzling, or difficult to understand._

Life in Derry - or Londonderry, if that was one’s persuasion - was an enigma. Being a teenager - especially a teenager in Derry - was definitely an enigma. And the fact that all of them - Clare, Orla, Michelle, James, and Erin - had stuck together through all of it...

Well, anyone could see how mysterious, puzzling, or difficult to understand _that_ could be. 

“But we’ll all stay in touch, right? We have to all stay in touch.” 

Clare couldn’t help but fuss, no matter how many times they had assured her that, aye, no one was going to do a runner from their friendship, no matter where in the world they were.

“We’re off to uni, Clare,” Erin said for the umpteenth time. “Not the moon.”

“Aye, some of us aren’t even fucking leaving Derry.” Michelle chewed on a corner of her Dairy Milk bar. “So we’ll be easy enough to track down.”

It was true. Michelle and Orla were both heading to Ulster University’s Magee College, right in the heart of good oul Derry itself.

“Aye, we’ll probably be buried in Derry one day,” Orla said. “Our bodies will nurture the soil for future generations.”

Clare decided not to touch that one.

“I look forward to seeing all the sights of London,” Erin mused. “Especially the Tower. Fancy getting my picture taken on Anne Boleyn’s chopping block.”

James looked at her. “You’re going to make me take that picture, aren’t you?”

Erin shrugged. “For the craic.”

“But you’ll be in London _together_.” Clare could feel a cack attack coming on, and she chugged down her highly-caffeinated drink as a means of staving it off.

Erin and James exchanged a glance.

“Not _together_ together,” James pointed out. 

“We’re each going to a different uni,” Erin reminded her (for the umpteenth time). 

“And thank fuck for that,” Michelle muttered. “Don’t want to make people boke having to look at the two of you all the time.”

Clare felt herself tearing up. She was really going to miss all of them. 

“But I won’t be around for any of it.” She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her shirt sleeve. “I’m going to miss the craic and the boking-”

“And the chippy,” Orla added.

“And the chippy,” Clare wailed, and Michelle threw Orla a sour look.

For Clare had been awarded a full scholarship to Columbia University in New York City. A grand opportunity, and no mistake, and not one she would ever considering turning down, but…

Well, her feelings were no enigma.

“Right, well, we’ve talked about this,” Erin said (for the umpteenth time). “And we’re all coming out to you for our epic road trip across America.”

“It’ll be grand,” James added. “Never been to New York City.”

“Can’t fucking wait, bitches.” Michelle slapped her hands together. “Got my _Lonely Planet_ , got my rucksack. We’re doing this.”

“Derry Girls in New York City.” Orla grinned. 

It would be grand.

That was no enigma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing Derry Girls fluff these past 10 days. Thanks for reading!


	21. I Don't Understand

It happened like this.

They were on the road, Jaskier and Geralt, and they had made good progress. Which was pretty easy to do when you had no specific destination in mind, but nevertheless, much ground was covered and eventually it was time to go _off_ the road to take care of basic necessities, such as sleeping and eating.

As one does.

Money was tight - had to keep Geralt in those leather trousers he preferred - but not so tight as to make an inn unaffordable.

And yet?

“Camping in the woods tonight,” Geralt insisted. “Out in nature. Under the stars.”

“Camping in the woods tonight,” Jaskier repeated. “Where it’s cold. And there are bugs.”

“You’ll manage,” Geralt grunted, and promptly began to lead Roach _off_ the road, which _hello_ , was not in the direction of the inn. “You always do.”

“Sure, but under duress.” Jaskier reluctantly followed man and his horse into the cold, bug-filled woods. “And with much complaining.”

“Money’s tight.”

_Not tighter than your ass._

Okay, Jaskier didn’t say that, but he wanted to. What he did say was:

“It’s not so tight as to make one night at an inn unaffordable.” He gestured in the general direction of the road. “Look, I can practically see it from here.” Which wasn’t true. “I’m sure it’s not terribly expensive.” He had no idea about that. “And hey, you might come across a desperate denizen who has dire need of a monster slayed.” Which could very possibly happen.

Geralt grunted in response.

Encouraged, Jaskier added, “And where there are monsters, there are money.” He shook his head. “Is money. Are monies?”

Vagaries of language aside, Geralt seemed distinctly unmoved by Jaskier’s impeccable display of logic, because he found a convenient spot in the woods nearby a stream and began setting up camp.

Jaskier watched moodily.

He was pretty willing to bet that Roach was watching moodily too, possibly even judgmentally, because where there were inns, there were clean stalls and water troughs and even feedbags filled with assumedly tasty morsels suitable to discerning mares.

Finally, when Geralt seemed entirely unperturbed by the disgruntled staring aimed in his direction, Jaskier threw up his hands and worked on getting a nice fire started. 

Hanger was a thing, after all, and he was in no mood to risk it.

Once the specifics of camp were taken care of - horse fed and watered, bedrolls smoothed and checked once or twice or five times for disgusting creepy-crawlies, meatish things roasting on spits - Jaskier broached the subject again.

Diplomatically, of course.

“So there’s one thing I don’t understand.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “One thing?”

“You wound me.” Jaskier put a hand to his chest. “But really, why no inn tonight when it was within easy walking distance and we could have been enjoying a warm meal of identifiable meats right at this very moment?”

“Inns are crowded.”

“They can be, but rooms are private.”

“Often dirty.”

“You can insist on the room being cleaned.”

“And…” Geralt trailed off and resumed gnawing on his roasted meat thing.

“And?” Jaskier prompted. 

Geralt muttered something.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that.”

Another mutter, this one directed more at the meat thing than at Jaskier.

“No, really, do speak up.”

“Dammit,” Geralt snapped through a charming mouthful of chewed, unidentifiable meat. “Is it so bad if I wanted a night with just us?”

Jaskier blinked.

“Just the two of us?” Geralt continued. “No inns, no crowds, no loud singing? Just the two of us, outside in nature? Is that so bad?”

“Well, no,” Jaskier said slowly. “No, that isn’t bad at all. And in fact, we could layer our bedrolls together for warmth. Since camping is so cold and all.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunted, and Jaskier took that for the positive affirmation that it was meant to be.

“But really, Geralt,” Jaskier crooned. “You could have just said something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting to write some Geralt/Jaskier fluff for a while now and Flufftober seemed like the time to finally do it. Toss a coin to your writer by letting me know what you think!


	22. Do You Trust Me?

Right, it happened along these lines.

They were holed up in some absolutely gods-forsaken inn in some no-name town that seemed entirely comprised of a muddy road and a house a worship. 

A shack of worship, really, and as the town was likely forsaken by any god with good sense, Jaskier figured the parishioners were wasting their collective time.

“And also,” Jaskier huffed, “not a single pub. Nothing even _resembling_ a pub.”

Geralt barely looked up from the sack he was rummaging through. “You can make do for one night.” 

But of course, _Geralt_ wasn’t sussed about such things, because he wasn’t the one who made good money entertaining the unwashed hordes in a well-stocked pub.

“Busk on the street if you need to,” Geralt said as if reading Jaskier’s mind. He withdrew a few glass phials from the sack, examined them with what was clear disappointment, and went right back to rummaging. 

“Right, well, first of all.” Jaskier held up a finger for emphasis. “I like to keep us in good mead. And second of all-” He narrowed his eyes. “What are you even doing?”

“That kikimore got me right in the back,” Geralt muttered. “But I’m all out of salve. Good salve, anyway.”

Jaskier examined Geralt’s backside for a moment (which was no big sacrifice). “You don’t appear to be bleeding.”

“I’m not. Still hurts.” 

Abruptly Geralt gave up digging through the sack, shoving it aside in disgust before flopping face down on the straw-stuffed mattress the innkeeper had passed off as a bed. 

Jaskier watched him for a moment, then studied the phials, selecting one that seemed particularly promising. 

“Take your shirt off, Geralt.”

“What?”

“Your trousers, too.”

“Fuck, Jaskier, I’m not in the mood.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I’m not in the mood either, you giant whinger.”

A lie, really, but a prudent one.

“Now,” he continued, “do you trust me?”

“About as far as I can throw you.” Geralt sat up long enough to shrug out of his clothing before falling back against the mattress. 

“As you can throw me pretty far, I’ll take that as enthusiastic consent.”

Jaskier allowed himself to drink in the sight of Geralt’s rather pert arse before straddling him, glass phial in hand. He poured its oily contents into one palm and set the phial aside, then rubbed his hands together.

“There’s barely a nick where the kikimore got you. I think you’re just _tense_.”

Geralt grunted in response.

Jaskier shrugged and got busy, working the oil into the planes of Geralt’s back and kneading coiled balls of muscle until they softened under his fingers. 

“See?” he murmured. “Tension.”

Another grunt, but this one definitely had an air of relaxation to it.

Jaskier leaned forward on his palms, slowly pushing them up the length of Geralt’s back, feeling all of that tension just melt away under his very clever ministrations. 

“I’m happy to do this at any time, you know,” he offered. “All you need do is ask.”

But Geralt didn’t answer this time, not even to grunt, for he had drifted off to sleep.

Jaskier smiled. 

Not bad for his first massage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing in The Witcher fandom, so if you're enjoying this, toss me a comment. I'd love to hear from you!


	23. Childhood Bedroom

The story went a little something like this…

Jaskier and Geralt sat on the edge of a very rudimentary and rickety pier, feet in the water and lines cast out. A basket sat next to them, a couple of cleanly gutted trout within, and the promise of a freshly grilled dinner not too far off.

Roach was tethered to one of the poles closest to the shoreline, happily munching on grass, her dinner well under way.

“So that Child of Surprise...” Jaskier started.

“Don’t spoil the moment,” Geralt said promptly.

“Just saying.” Jaskier figured the moment couldn’t really be spoiled anyway. “He or she could come along at any time.”

Geralt grunted.

“You should plan for it. Maybe pick out curtains.”

“Shut up.”

“No, really. Nice curtains,” Jaskier mused. “Imagine the child comes along, and you don’t have a nursery ready?”

Geralt rolled his eyes.

“I mean,” Jaskier mused, “talk about spoiling the moment.”

“You…” Geralt focused very hard on the fishing line, as if that would save him from the conversation. “You really make my head hurt sometimes.”

Jaskier shrugged. “Just saying.”

A moment lapsed between them. No fish tugged at their lines. Instead of being discouraged, Jaskier felt motivated to continue.

“What was your childhood bedroom like?”

“Cold, dark, and hard.”

“No, Geralt, not your _childhood_. Your bedroom. There’s a difference.”

“Same.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I wanted velvet curtains.”

Geralt’s eyebrow twitched at that. “The fuck kind of child wants velvet curtains?”

“This one.”

Another grunt.

“Didn’t get them though,” Jaskier reflected. “So let’s make up for that. Velvet curtains for this mysterious Child of Surprise.”

“Fine,” Geralt muttered. “You get right on that.”

“Really?”

“If it makes you shut up, really.”

“You’re too kind,” Jaskier crooned.

“Shut up.”

“Always thinking of me, Geralt.”

“Really, shut up.”

“Witcher with a heart of gold.”

Geralt made a garbled sound of frustration. 

Jaskier smiled. 

Small victory, but it definitely counted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully someone's reading these Witcher shorts? Maybe? Ah well, they're still fun to write.


	24. Serendipity

So this story, like all stories, was as true as any other. 

Jaskier and Geralt experienced several good days in a row. Not that experiencing good days was a _rare_ thing or a _surprising_ thing, but back-to-back good days...?

No one trying to kill them.

No evil djinns putting curses on them.

No arrogant sorceresses attempting to orchestrate an extremely unwise chain of events that they just couldn’t walk away from now that they were in the know.

None of that.

And that in itself was pretty rare.

“It’s like the gods have smiled on us for once,” Jaskier mused, after a particularly good night of monster hunting (on Geralt’s part) and pub busking (on Jaskier’s). 

“Way to fuck it up,” Geralt muttered. “Now you’ve said something.”

“I’ve fucked nothing up, my friend.” Jaskier patted his trendy purse, which was heavy with coins. “I had money to earn, and now I’ve got money to burn.”

“It has been a good few days,” Geralt admitted. He stroked Roach alongside her neck, as if to reassure her that she, too, was a part of the good days. 

“It has.” Jaskier gestured expansively. “Creepy crawlies needed killing, and you’ve earned a pretty penny doing so. Weary travelers needed entertaining, and I provided.”

“We could stay in a good inn for a night,” Geralt mused. “With one of those large tubs.”

“With the oils and the bath salts,” Jaskier added. “They really do wonders for your skin.”

Geralt grunted.

“Oh, and we should make sure the pillows are fluffy,” Jaskier said. “I really do think we’ve earned the fluffy pillows.”

“The fluffiest.” Geralt rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth all the same.

The inn that they found was appropriately named Serendipity. And indeed, its pillows were the fluffiest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always welcomed, encouraged, and hoped for.


	25. Resilience

Contrary to popular belief, the story was entirely true…

“Who are you talking to?” Ciri demanded.

Jaskier looked up from where he sat on a log, absent-mindedly strumming his lute. “Beg pardon?”

“You’re just…” Ciri gestured to some vague point in the woods. “You’re just staring off into nothingness and addressing no one.”

Jaskier frowned. “Am not.”

“Are too.” Ciri put on a frankly terrible imitation of Jaskier’s voice, if he did say so himself. “ _’Contrary to popular belief, the story was entirely true.’_ What story? Whose story? What are you even-”

“I was working on a song,” Jaskier insisted. He twanged a few chords on the lute, as if to prove it. “See?”

Ciri raised an eyebrow.

“I’m a bard.” Another bit of generous strumming to drive the point home. “It’s what I do.”

“Fine.” Ciri rolled her eyes so hard, Jaskier was surprised they didn’t fall directly out of the girl’s head. “Keep entertaining the invisible masses, o humble bard.”

Jaskier set the lute aside. “You know, you’re awfully sarcy for an eight year old.”

“Have you ever _met_ an eight year old?” Ciri snorted. “Also, I told you, I’m not eight, I’m-”

“Now, children.” Geralt crouched in front of a small fire, tending to their evening’s meal. “Don’t fight with each other.”

Jaskier felt terribly compelled to mutter _’Sorry, Dad’_ , but he managed to rein himself in and take the higher road, like the responsible and mature adult that he was.

“She started it.” He pointed an accusatory finger at the girl.

Ciri narrowed her eyes. “And so help me, I’ll finish it.”

Yes, indeed, Jaskier could see how the girl was the unfortunately-departed Lioness of Cintra’s beloved granddaughter. He had absolutely no doubt that she might shank him in his sleep if she but put her mind to the task. 

Adaptable little wain, that girl.

Before long, they sat around the campfire, munching resolutely on over-cooked meat and a handful of rubbery root vegetables, like some sort of weird, makeshift family. 

If makeshift families consisted of a mutated monster hunter in tight pants, a runaway princess, and an extremely talented and handsome bard with absolutely killer fashion sense, that was.

“This tastes pretty awful, Geralt,” Ciri said through a mouthful of root vegetables. “It could use-”

“Flavor?” Jaskier suggested.

Ciri rolled her eyes. “Salt.”

“We don’t have salt,” Geralt pointed out.

“Could we get salt in the next town?” Ciri asked. “Not like an enormous, cumbersome bag of it, but enough to actually season food. Maybe some pepper?”

“Or bay leaves,” Jaskier added. “Very versatile, those bay leaves.”

“If you want to do the cooking, girl,” Geralt said, “by all means, take over.”

Like the absolute role model of an adult that he was, Jaskier refrained from saying “Ooh.” 

Actually, no, he didn’t. He totally said it, and had no regrets about doing so. 

Ciri didn’t even glance at him, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on Geralt. “Deal. I’ll take over the cooking if we can get some salt and pepper, and yes, bay leaves in the next town.”

Geralt grunted and went back to chewing on his charred meat. 

“That was enthusiastic consent,” Jaskier explained. 

“Yes, I know what ‘hm’ means.” Ciri gnawed grimly on another depressing root vegetable.

Jaskier picked up his burnt stick of meat and felt oddly contented to be part of their weird little makeshift family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally found a place to bring Ciri in. As always, comments are warmly welcomed.


	26. On the Road

The tale went a little something like this…

They were on the road, Jaskier and Geralt, and it was _perfect_.

“It is not a perfect day?” Jaskier asked, perhaps rhetorically, but such thoughts were always worth sharing.

Geralt grunted his assent.

Not perfect as in a scarcity of monsters. Without monsters, there was no steady income. And not perfect as in a lack of ungrateful, wary villagers who were glad to pay to have said monsters killed, so long as said monster killers beat an immediate and hasty retreat the minute the debts were settled. 

“My coin purse is feeling much heavier after clearing that cemetery of necrophages,” Geralt mused.

“Yes,” Jaskier agreed. “I can imagine a local church letting parishioners get eaten is something of a publicity nightmare.”

And fine, _fine_ , not even perfect as in well-stocked pubs full of contented, happy people, because truth be told, contented happy people weren’t usually the best at giving up their coins to extremely talented and dashingly handsome bards.

The miserable sods? 

Now they were generous. Anything to take the edge off the steady influx of funerals they had been having before the necrophages had well slewed.

Slayed? _Slain?_

“Though I could write a song about it.” Jaskier hummed thoughtfully. “A joyous little ditty, perhaps?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Would that count as good publicity?”

“Any publicity for _me_ is good publicity, my friend.”

Another grunt. Likely one of agreement.

No, the reason why it was perfect was because the sky was blue, the air was crisp, and the leaves were a riotous medley of beautiful autumn colors. They had no particular destination in mind, and so the open road called enticingly to them, promising love, adventure, and more coins, whether that be through energetic monster hunting or really sexy lute strumming. 

“So perfect,” Jaskier reiterated. 

And also, because they were beating a hasty retreat from the miserable necrophage village before said villagers realized just _how much_ they might have overpaid said extremely talented and dashingly handsome bard when they were drunk off their funereal misery.

Hey, if Jaskier had encouraged a sozzled patron to toss a coin or five or ten to the handsome bard, well, he figured he was doing a very public and necessary service.

Good thing they were on the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toss a comment into my inbox if you're so inclined.


	27. Half-Written

The tale - a surprise to all involved - unfolded like this.

They had a tent now - well, more like a lean-to than an actual tent, but having anything resembling a tarp over their collective heads counted as a vast improvement in their quality of life, if Jaskier did say so himself.

“You’re doing it again,” Ciri pointed out, barely looking up from where she was salting a middling collection of trout. 

Jaskier frowned. “Doing what?”

“Narrating our lives to nothing and no one.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.” Geralt likewise didn’t look up from skewering a handful of trout in preparation for grilling over the toasty fire.

“I’m a bard,” Jaskier conceded. “It’s what we do.”

Geralt grunted.

Ciri rolled her eyes.

They stuffed themselves with a halfway decent dinner (Ciri was right; salt really did improve the flavor) before retiring to the relative coziness of their tent. 

Or lean-to, but wandering bards couldn’t be entirely too picky now, could they?

The call of nature woke Jaskier in the middle of the night. He squidged out of the tent, relieved himself a good distance away from their camp, and nearly tripped over Ciri while trying to make his way back to the tent in the dark.

Ciri, who was sitting on a log and strumming awkwardly on _his_ lute.

“So…” Jaskier began. “I’m not going to ask the obvious question. It’s clear _what_ you’re doing. Let’s start with ‘why’?”

“Why not?” She plucked another sour note, and Jaskier tried nobly not to cringe.

She didn’t miss the look.

“I’m clearly not very good at it, but I’m trying.”

“I can hear that.” Jaskier sat down next to her. “Still doesn’t really answer the question of why.” He held up a finger. “And ‘why not’ doesn’t count as an answer, not when you’ve stolen a man’s lute.”

“I didn’t steal it.” He could _hear_ the eye-roll in the girl’s voice. “I merely borrowed it while you were sleeping.”

“It’s my main source of income.”

“It’s your only source of income.”

“Duly noted, and so I’m very protective of it.” Jaskier tried not to make grabby-hands, but it took every shred of his remarkable self-control. “So you better get to giving me a real ‘why’ before I… I don’t know… sing a very vocal complaint at you.”

“I’m not even passably good.” Ciri sighed and pressed the lute into his hands. “But someone has to tell the story of what happened in Cintra. Someone who was there, and will tell the truth, and isn’t going to turn it into lies or propaganda.”

Jaskier suppressed a wince. Definitely suppressed trying to hug the girl, though it seemed she could use one.

“That someone won’t be me though.” She rested her chin in her hand. “I’m not even passably _bad_.”

“You’re neither bad nor good.” Jaskier plucked an easy chord. “You’re just a beginner.”

Ciri glanced at him. “Hardly.”

“Everyone has to begin somewhere.” Jaskier shrugged. “While I know it’s hard to believe, seeing how incredibly handsome and talented I am-”

That got an eye-roll out of the girl, which was exactly what he wanted.

“- I wasn’t born knowing how to play a lute or write a song.” He plucked another few chords. “Consider this your first lesson. Starting right now.”

Ciri sat up straight, the eagerness on her face plain even in the dark.

Jaskier smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is so much fun to write.


	28. Starlight

The tale unfurled thusly…

No.

_Wrong._

Jaskier had no good words for how the tale unfolded, because it was too much, and too good, and too _perfect_. And even though it was his job as a (extremely talented and dashingly handsome) bard to tell tales, this particular ditty seemed stuck on his lips. 

Well.

His lips had been otherwise occupied.

“You’re musing,” Geralt noted, sweaty and satiated. “Why are you musing?”

They stayed bundled up in their combined bedrolls, the scratchy fabric the only thing between nature and nudity. 

“I’m always musing,” Jaskier… well, _mused_. “Nature of the bardic game.”

Geralt grunted, and suddenly Jaskier was less than satisfied with that response.

The stars hung endlessly expansive over their heads, and he found his attention drawn toward the brightest ones. He lifted a finger and lazily traced a path between the constellations he recognized.

“This wasn’t my first tumble, if you know what I mean,” he said. “But it’s my first tumble outdoors in the starlight.”

“Congratulations.” Geralt snorted without heat. “I’ll buy you an ale at the next inn.”

“Don’t think I won’t take you up on that.”

“I’m counting on you to take me up on that.”

“Or maybe mead?” Jaskier hummed thoughtfully. “I do like that honey taste.”

“Mead is also an acceptable reward.”

“Or… wine. Red wine. I do so like red wine.”

Another snort. “Now you’re just getting picky. Anything else?”

Jaskier glanced at him. “I mean, if you’re asking…”

“Don’t press your luck.”

“I think I pressed a whole lot more tonight, Geralt.”

“That…” Geralt raised an eyebrow. “That makes no sense.”

It was Jaskier’s turn to snort. “ _You_ weren’t making much sense when I was doing all that… pressing.”

“I’ve broken you. The fucking broke your brain.”

“And the pressing broke _yours_.”

“I… okay.” Geralt dragged his hands down his face. “Fair enough.”

“We still on for mead? Or wine? Or ale, if we must?”

“You would drive any man to drink, so yes, we’re still on.”

Jaskier pressed a hand to his (somewhat sticky) chest. “Well, damn, Geralt, you really know how to sweet talk a man.”

“I seem to remember you liking my attempts at sweet talking earlier.”

“And I seem to remember you liking all that sexy _pressing_ I was doing.”

Geralt made a garbled sound of frustration.

Jaskier smiled, and he was pretty sure the stars winked encouragingly back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated.


	29. Thunderstorm

As always, the story was completely true.

Jaskier sat in the second-story window seat of a very grand governor’s cottage, of the sort that he would only ever see the inside of because he was one of the peons given permission to entertain the fine lords and ladies for a generous penny or two. 

Or, in this case, because he was the traveling companion of the witcher hired to deal with, as said grand governor himself had put it, “a slight monster problem.”

Except before slight monster problem could be appropriately dealt with, the clouds rolled in, the sky turned nearly black, and the rain unleashed itself upon the earth as if it didn’t plan to stop for forty days and forty nights.

“Now you’re just being dramatic.” Geralt sat next to Jaskier, moodily watching the rain come down.

“I live for the drama,” Jaskier said, and when Geralt raised an eyebrow, he shrugged and added, “I’m not wrong.”

Geralt grunted. 

Lightning sizzled across the sky in jagged streaks, temporarily illuminating the muddy courtyard below and the fine orchard in the distance.

Jaskier frowned. “Think the noonwraiths are hiding in the orchard now?”

Geralt smirked. “Eating apples and not paying the governor for their fair share?”

“How dare.”

“So rude.”

“Well, this isn’t the worst thing.” Jaskier gestured about the room. “Quite a sweet suite we have here, lovely fireplace, practically a bearskin rug in front of the thing.”

“Terrible fire hazard.”

“Yes, Geralt, because that was the point I was trying to make. The sexy and inviting bearskin rug is a terrible, terrible fire hazard, and someone should fine the governor for it, or at least write him a very sternly worded letter.”

Another grunt, though there was a smile beneath.

“We shouldn’t waste this thunderstorm either way.” Jaskier stood and stretched like a satisfied housecat, all lanky limbs and sinewy muscle. 

“You going to get naked and dance in the rain?” Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“Well, I don’t know about the ‘dance in the rain part’, but I was certainly looking to get naked.” Jaskier gestured once again toward the fireplace. “You know, in front of the toasty fire, on the very fine bearskin rug.”

“Well, we shouldn’t let the bearskin rug go to waste.”

Jaskier grinned. “Now you’re getting the idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then they took a tumble on the bearskin rug. True story.


	30. You Had to Be There

The story was _private_ , thank you very much.

Really.

Just because Jaskier was a bard - and a very sexy, charismatic, and talented bard at that - it didn’t mean he had to share _everything_ with anyone who wanted to hear a rollicking ditty.

And he had many rollicking ditties. 

And just because he was in a relationship with an extremely sexy - if occasionally monosyllabic - witcher, it didn’t mean he was going to spill the tea to anyone who wanted a bit of hot gossip.

And _everyone_ wanted a bit of hot gossip about that. 

People were simply nosy that way. 

Really, write one (extremely good) song about said (very sexy) friend of humanity, and suddenly everyone wanted to know if said very sexy friend of humanity really did have as nice an arse as his leather pants made it seem.

(Uh, yes. He did.)

But that really was nobody’s business now, was it? 

Some things, even the things that Jaskier wanted to shout from the rooftop, were private, after all. Such as the fact that Geralt, despite his general stoic broodiness, was actually quite cuddly and affectionate once he warmed up, and especially after a good tumble.

Or that he liked his scalp scritched _just so_ , like some sort of fat, lazy housecat. In fact, Jaskier really wouldn’t have been surprised if he started purring. Hadn’t happened yet, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t. 

And the other things? 

Such as what Geralt liked during a good tumble? Or the kind of sweet little nothing murmurings that happened afterward?

Well.

Guess someone just had to be there for that. 

And lucky for Jaskier, that someone was him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten days of fluffy Witcher prompts! 30 days total of writing a prompt a day. I'm really surprised I made it this far without missing a day. Tomorrow is the final prompt, woohoo!


	31. Halloween with Eve and Villanelle

Villanelle had never done a proper Halloween before.

(Completing assignments for work on a day that just so happened to be Halloween absolutely didn’t count, so there.)

When she and Eve just so happened to be holed up in a swanky Airbnb brownstone in Boston (again, for work, but _whatever_ , Carolyn, All Hallow’s Eve only came once a year, just like Santa), she insisted on doing the thing properly.

“What, like, trick or treating?” Eve asked through a mouthful of caramel apple. (Villanelle had insisted on making those as well.) “I haven’t done that since I was, like… in college.”

“That seems kind of old,” Villanelle pointed out.

Eve shrugged. “I mean, I was doing it for my service club. We were collecting soup cans for a food pantry, but people gave us candy too.”

“Well, I don’t mean trick or treating.” Villanelle waved that nonsense away. “But all the rest.”

‘All the rest’ turned out to be a haunted hayride through a spooky graveyard (which was so obviously fake, but the actors got into it and the bit with the chainsaws was pretty cool), picking pumpkins from a patch (even if they weren’t really _picking_ them; more like just choosing ones that had been rolled into the field), and buying a veritable shitload of candy to give out to the kids.

“And we need to be dressed like really scary,” Villanelle said, as they sat on the polished wooden floor of the brownstone, carefully carving pumpkins. “Like fake blood and shit.”

“And shit?” Eve raised an eyebrow.

Villanelle rolled her eyes so hard, she was surprised they didn’t fall out of her head. “You know what I mean.”

Eve’s pumpkin was passable, with triangle eyes and a slightly toothy mouth, but Villanelle’s pumpkin looked sort of… well, terrible, but whatever, she had never carved a pumpkin before, so she gave herself a pineapple Dum Dum lollipop for effort before sticking tealights in both Jack-o-lanterns and displaying them on the stoop.

Their scary costumes came directly from Party City, after a good two hours of looking and Eve getting increasingly whinier about the whole thing. Villanelle chose a scary, yet weirdly sexy, nurse costume, complete with fake blood and zombie makeup. 

Eve was a nun.

“C’mon, nuns are scary,” she insisted. “They are so scary.”

They sat on the stoop, gorging on a fresh batch of caramel apples while tossing Dum Dums and fun size candies to the dozens of children who stopped by. Villanelle even beaned a couple of teenagers directly on their foreheads, but who didn’t like being hit with fun sized Snickers?

They ate the leftover candy that evening, and despite the sugary stomachache that followed, Villanelle had absolutely no regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I had so much fun writing these. Happy Halloween!


	32. Halloween with the Derry Girls

Derry might have had fuck-all to do most days of the year, but the one thing their wee, shitty town did right was Hallo-fucking-ween.

“In Derry, Halloween is a week long event,” Clare explained to James, “that started over 3000 years ago when Ireland was a pagan land and-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Michelle waved that all away. “It’s Halloween everywhere you look. Some fucking beezer parties-”

“The parade is cracker,” Orla pointed out. “Especially when they throw sweets into the crowd. People riot over the lollies, that they do.”

James looked at her. “You’re having me on.”

“She tells no lies,” Erin said, then waved _that_ away. “We should do a group costume on parade night. We can be the Spice Girls!”

“Those fucking English-” Michelle started, only for Clare and Orla to open their bakes and exclaim that, yes, they absolutely wanted to be the motherfucking Spice Girls.

They phrased it differently, but they had already gotten their kex in a fucking twist about the whole thing, so fine, Spice Girls it was. 

“But…” James hesitated. “None of us are black.”

And that was how, on the eve of the Halloween parade, they ended up being the Spice Girls… and Doctor Who.

“It’s not Doctor _Who_ ,” James explained for what was probably the hundredth time. “He’s just called the Doctor.”

“Then why is the program called ‘Doctor Who’?” Michelle, as a half-assed Sporty Spice in trainers and a tracksuit , snapped. “Dicko.”

“I’m a bit broke for you, James.” Orla was resplendent in a Union Jack toga and a bad red wig. 

“Thought you were a fan of that show,” Erin added. Her Posh Spice consisted of another terrible wig, a too-tight black dress borrowed from her aunty, and a duck lips pout whenever someone wanted to snap a photo.

“I am,” James said, fingers tight around his Doctor Who scarf.

“Then why don’t you know the main character’s name?” Clare’s Baby Spice costume was probably the best of all them, her wee pigtails bouncing as she bobbed her head.

James opened his mouth, probably to melt their heads with some dicko lecture about his nerd show, when the spooky music blared out over the loudspeakers and the parade started in full-force.

And it was true, it really was. Derry did a fucking cracker parade. 

The music was dead-on, every float was better than the last, and the crowd roared with energy and excitement. Especially when the zombies on the ‘Thriller’ float started hurling lollies at the crowd.

Which was how Michelle got lamped in the damn nose by a couple of wains eager for a handful of Chupa Chups, but no matter. She elbowed one right in the middle of his stupid Darth Vader costume and emerged victorious with a lolly for every Spice Girl, and yes, even Doctor Who.

Because Halloween in Derry was fucking cracker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had so much fun writing these, that I had to add some bonus Halloween ficlets. Happy Halloween!


	33. All Hallow's Eve with Jaskier, Geralt, and Ciri

The spooky tale went thusly…

Their odd little makeshift family - consisting of one dashingly sexy and handsome bard, one stoic, yet attractive witcher in tight leather trousers, and a troublemaking girl who nonetheless made a mean pepper pot soup - ended up in a halfway decent village on All Hallow’s Eve.

The apple cider flowed freely, the pumpkin tarts were the perfect combination of sweet and crisp, and-

“Could you please stop narrating?” Ciri said, through a mouthful of said pumpkin tart. 

“We’re all sitting right here,” Geralt pointed out. “We do know what’s going on.”

They sat under a food tent in the town square, warm tankards of cider and a pumpkin tart for each of them. A merry band of minstrels entertained the masses with spooky songs, and though Jaskier might have been able to outdo them, he really just wanted to enjoy the surroundings for an evening.

“Fine, fine,” Jaskier muttered. He took a large swig of apple cider. “But when you don’t remember the events of the day-”

Ciri rolled her eyes. “Because we’ve been hit with memory erasing curses.”

Geralt snorted into his tankard. 

Jaskier waved dismissively at both of them and crammed the rest of the tart into his mouth. Which he regretted only because it was so good, and now he was finished with it.

“We should buy six more of these.”

“Yes,” Ciri said instantly.

“The first good idea you’ve had all day.” Geralt promptly got up, returning a few moments later with not just pumpkin tarts, but a handful of other treats, which he spread out on the table before them. “The apple crisps looked good, and everything else looked good too.”

“Why choose when you don’t have to?” Jaskier reached for an apple crisp, right as Ciri grabbed something that looked deliciously chocolatey. 

And that was how their odd little makeshift family spent All Hallow’s Eve, sitting together in a village and enjoying the holiday while gorging on sweets and cider.

Jaskier couldn’t have written it better if he tried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had so much fun writing these, so I couldn't resist giving each series a Halloween ficlet. Thanks for reading. Happy Halloween!


End file.
